


The Red Death

by Satelesque



Series: Alastor/Alastor Week [3]
Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Costume Parties & Masquerades, Dress Up, Edgar Allan Poe References, Historical Dress, Human Alastor (Hazbin Hotel), M/M, Murder Flirting, Queerplatonic Relationships, shoulder devil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:34:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25615186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Satelesque/pseuds/Satelesque
Summary: For all his life, Alastor has happily let the demon on his shoulder tempt him further into sin, and with every step, his demon becomes more real.  It's not enough though.  It's not truly corporeal yet, and nothing he's done has managed to change that.  But the masquerade ball tonight just might be an opportunity, and both Alastor and his demon have a few ideas for how.All entries in this series can be read standalone of each other.
Relationships: Alastor/Alastor (Hazbin Hotel)
Series: Alastor/Alastor Week [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1851988
Comments: 6
Kudos: 27





	The Red Death

**Author's Note:**

> For Day 4: Trying on New Clothes  
> And it's actually relevant!
> 
> I'm trying something new with names/pronouns in this one.

_ “The tastes of the duke were peculiar. He had a fine eye for color and effects. He disregarded the "decora" of mere fashion. His plans were bold and fiery, and his conceptions glowed with barbaric lustre. There are some who _ —page.”

Alastor set down a bundle of cloth and walked to where the demon was standing. A book lay open on the desk. The Works of Edgar Allan Poe, turned to The Masque of the Red Death. Lately it had become one of his demon’s favorites, in preparation for the masquerade perhaps. Alastor reached for the corner of the page, but before he could turn it, the demon caught his wrist in its hand.

_ “There are some who would have thought him mad. His followers felt that he was not. It was necessary to hear and see and touch him to be sure he was not.” _

The demon wasn’t reading anymore but reciting, matching the words to its actions. At  _ see _ it stared into Alastor’s eyes, catching them in its own deep red. At  _ touch _ it reached out, laying a finger at the tip of his sternum and sliding it down to his stomach, like tracing a seam to skin him alive.

“Someone’s in a good mood,” Alastor chuckled. It wasn’t often that his demon used the ‘page’ trick to call him over. If the demon wanted to touch him, it could walk over and do it. It was only when it wanted Alastor’s full attention that it went out of its way to summon him.

It wasn’t often that the demon didn’t politely look away when it caught Alastor without a shirt, as if it abhorred seeing its human in any state of undress. It was why it had adopted its hobby of reading aloud in the first place. It’d be boring to dispel it any time Alastor had to change, and the demon had such a beautiful voice.

Alastor had pointed out the irony before, but only once. The demon replied simply with, “Vanity is as much as sin as lust, my dear,” and that was that.

But today the demon was excited enough to call Alastor over and look at his bare chest without glancing away, as if it was already imagining the costume on him. It was excited enough to make see-through excuses just to get closer. “It’s a fitting line,” it said, “and I saw fit to act it out.”

Alastor leaned forward, wrapping his hand—the one that wasn’t still caught—around the demon’s shoulder. “Is it though? We’re both certainly mad, and I thought I was meant to be the Death, not Prospero.”

The sudden proximity flipped a switch, and the demon dropped Alastor’s wrist as if it burned. “Oh, of course! Silly of me to forget, but what did you expect when you’re not dressed yet? Now why don’t you put on a shirt.”

“Why don’t you help me?”

Alastor could see the tension as the demon’s desires warred with its decorum until finally it gave way. “Fine. But only because it’s a special occasion. And only if you put on the breeches.”

“Then I’ll only be a minute,” Alastor said and gave the demon a parting gift. His hand slid across its back and pulled it into a tight hug, and Alastor chucked as the demon looked up and away. With that he broke off to find his stockings and let the demon release the breath it’d been holding. “Isn’t it meant to be the other way around?” he asked. “Shouldn’t you be the one tempting me?”

“Oh, aren’t I?” it said. “There’s a reason I’m here alone and a reason you know exactly how to make me say yes. Temptation is in every demon’s nature. Both giving and receiving.”

Al chuckled. Technically the demon wasn’t here alone. Technically it could never be alone. No spirit could exist without its host, and the demon on Alastor’s shoulder was no different, even if it had long since grown too big to fit. In another sense it was always alone though—always missing its foil. The angel meant to sit on Alastor’s other shoulder—the one who’d oppose the demon’s whispers and lead Alastor into goodness—had never shown up.

Sometimes Alastor thought he could hear it. Sometimes—especially when the demon was closest—he thought he could just about pick up a tinny buzzing, utterly wordless, not even a whisper. He almost thought he heard it now as he stepped out of his trousers and pulled on a pair of stockings, but it might as easily have been the chirp of distant grasshoppers.

Maybe the angel really had been there all his life. Sometimes Alastor wondered what could’ve been if he’d tried to search for that buzz while still in the crib. All angels and demons grew more powerful the more their words were heeded. Maybe everyone started with nothing more than two faint hums, and Alastor alone had chosen to ignore one of them. He couldn’t blame himself. What sane being would choose a subliminal hum over the vibrant tones of his demon? Alastor certainly wouldn’t be starting now, not after all they’d done together. 

“Ready when you are,” he said and fastened just the top button of his breeches to keep them from falling. His shirt still had to be tucked in, and his demon seemed utterly resigned to that fact as it walked over.

“Your shirt,” it said, trying its hardest to maintain nothing but eye contact. “Where is it?”

Alastor pointed at the white sleeve poking from the bundle of red on his bed and almost laughed at the demon’s indignant look.

“For shame! And after the tailor folded your costume so neatly.” Then it let out a sigh. “Well, what are you waiting for?”

That was the only real downside to their situation. Alastor’s demon was still Alastor’s, bound to him alone and to the world only indirectly through him. According to the demon, it had used to be worse. Long ago it had only been able to see Alastor and a vague blur around him. All it had heard was Alastor’s voice. By now it could see everything in the room, even when Alastor wasn’t looking. It could hear everything he could hear, but any more was still a problem. Ever since Alastor was a child the demon had been able to touch him, but everything else was conditional, even the pages of a book.

“It’s your own fault, you know,” Alastor said as he pulled the white cloth from the bundle and held it over his head. “You’re the one who distracted me just as I was unpacking, but all’s well that ends well.” He closed his eyes and let the shirt fall down his arms and over his head, leaving the rest to his demon and savoring every second of it.

It started with his hands, guiding them through the frilled cuffs and fastening the buttons at his wrists. Its touch trailed along the sleeves and down Alastor’s back, straightening the shirt and pulling it over Alastor’s head. It lingered at his neck as the demon adjusted his collar, and Alastor sighed and leaned back against its chest.

“I have a theory,” Alastor said as the demon buttoned his collar. “If it’s in your nature to tempt me, then go on. Don’t hold back. There’s nothing you want that I don’t. Not anymore.”

There had been a time when Alastor had hated the demon’s touch, when it had been no more welcome than anyone else’s, but that time was long gone. The rule still held for everyone else, but the demon was an exception. It was his, his only spirit, and metaphysically incapable of anything Alastor would genuinely dislike. It tucked his shirt in quickly and methodically, getting the worst over with, then caught his hand and pulled him into a spin.

It wasn’t a dance so much as a display of physics in action. Centripetal force and barely enough friction to keep Alastor’s stockinged feet from slipping across the floor. He laughed anyway. How could he not with his demon beaming at him like that?

“How’s this?” it said and let go. There was a breathless moment as Alastor stumbled back, tripped, and fell, but he landed squarely on his bed, still laughing. Before he could push himself up, his demon was there, crouched by the side of the bed, hands on his legs. Its fingers started on the buttons on his knees, and Alastor relaxed into the covers with a last chuckle.

“Not enough. You have to fall too. How do you expect us to get any farther while you’re still dragging your heels?”

They’d hit a limit in the last year. The demon could touch now, but only the things Alastor was holding. Only the clothes he was wearing, anything in his hands, and a few exceptions that blurred the lines. But it wanted more. It wanted those lines gone. They both did, and the only way to get there was for it to pull Alastor deeper into sin. That was the demon’s goal and its purpose, and it had always been effortlessly perfect.

“I know you know what to do,” Alastor said. “You said it yourself. It’s in your nature. You know what I want better than I do, and we both know  _ I’m _ not the one holding back. I’ve been indulging your every whim and then some. At least the ones you share.” Alastor’s voice sharpened on the last words, pointed and accusing.

The demon finished with the buckles at his knees and let out a huff. “Of course I’m holding back,” it said, and its hand clasped around Alastor’s ankle. Its claws pressed down, but there was no danger of drawing blood or even piercing the cloth. It was another of their arbitrary lines. No cuts, no scratches. The demon could do no harm to anything real, and it only guided Alastor’s foot to his shoe so it could slip it on. “If it was up to me,” it went on, “you wouldn’t have a moment’s rest. We’d have so much fun! The streets would run red until I was just as real as you. Until I could hold a knife like you or until I didn’t need one.” Its claws wrapped around his other ankle. “Until I can feel everything you do,  _ taste _ everything you do, and show you just how far we can go together.”

As it finished with his shoes, it leaned over the bed, blocking the light and silhouetted against it. Its eyes glowed a brilliant red in the darkness, and that was exactly what Alastor wanted. Everything it said. Every one of its achingly impossible words. His reply came on the back of a sigh.

“And while we’re dancing in blood I get shot in the back.”

The expression on the demon’s face was an odd one, resignation layered over I-told-you-so smugness and the ever-present smile. “Exactly. I know what you want better than you do, even when I have to hold back.” It held its hand out to pull Alastor up, but Alastor took it a step further, literally. He let the demon pull him up then stepped into its space, less than a foot left between them, and clasped a hand around its shoulder.

“Don’t.”

It met his gaze, entirely unfazed. “Don’t hold back? Feeling suicidal, are we?”

“Feeling left out!” Alastor grinned and stepped another inch closer. “I want you to tell me everything. Every single thing you want, and we’ll decide the rest together.”

“Starting now?” it asked, and Alastor widened his smile in answer. This time it was the demon who leaned in until their noses pressed together and its eyes filled the whole of Alastor’s vision, bright red and wide with excitement. “You couldn’t have picked a better day!”

“I know! What’s first?”

“First we get you in costume.” It dropped Alastor’s hand and stepped back, giving him the cue to pick up his waistcoat. By the time he turned around the demon had wandered off to stand next to his mirror. It held out its hand as Alastor walked over, then raised it over his head to give him a twirl. Both were laughing as Alastor took his place in front of the mirror and pinched one end of the waistcoat between his fingers. It was enough for the demon to take the cloth and slip it over his shoulders, and finally the outfit was starting to come together. Not just a white shirt and breeches a dark enough red that they could be mistaken for burgundy. The vest was embroidered with black and gold, but the fabric was a bright blood red the exact shade of the glowing eyes behind him.

“And what do I do next?” Alastor asked. The demon wrapped its arms around him to start doing up buttons, and Alastor reached up and back, using the mirror to guide his hands. One of them curled around its neck while the other twined through its hair.

“Next?” it chuckled. “It’s a masquerade. Next you see how many of them you can kill before anyone catches on. How many bodies tucked in side rooms and alcoves and gardens? How many people missing until the rest start to notice?”

Alastor’s eyes slid closed as he imagined the scene. “And how will I do it?”

“Oh, it’ll be as easy as breathing. Hold out your hand. Offer them a dance, and while you’re alone, invite them somewhere more private. A moonlit stroll amidst the roses, or a chat in the back rooms.”

“And if they’re married? Or men?”

“Don’t undersell yourself.” The demon finished the last button and ran its hands along the front of the waistcoat too sensually to be merely adjusting the fit. “I’m sure you’ll find some way to get them alone.”

Shivers ran across Alastor’s skin where the demon had touched, and he let it draw out a gasp before he pulled away. “There’s always the usual,” he said. “The old, ’They have moonshine in the back, and I know the password.’ What’s next?”

“Your hair.”

“My hair?” Alastor reached up to brush his fingers through. It was clean and in place. No frizz, no bed head. “What about it?”

“It’s too recognizable. What better excuse than a masquerade for a change of style?” The demon leaned on the wall by the bathroom door, and Alastor walked over to open it. 

“Ah, but there’s a problem, isn’t there?” Alastor asked. “You want to use the pomade? My hair’s dry, and I’m already dressed.”

The demon smiled brightly. “Every problem has a solution if you’re willing to get creative! Towel.” The last word was a request, and Alastor rolled his eyes, grabbed hold of a corner, and tossed it over. He didn’t expect the demon to wrap it around his shoulders or to grab his hand and put its own on his waist. He didn’t expect it to start a box step, but from there he could gather the rest. The demon led them through a spin and a half, and Alastor let it lower him into a dip and further. Lower until he overbalanced and fell back onto the edge of the counter. The demon was still supporting his waist, and Alastor craned his neck to see the faucet just inches away.

“I suppose this works,” he sighed and shifted into a more comfortable position over the sink. “But aren’t you in a mood to dance today? Feeling jealous?”

“No,” it said. “Feeling helpful. I’m giving you a last chance to practice before the party.”

Alastor raised a brow. “Practice? As a follow?”

“Weren’t you just wondering how to draw in men? You’ll need to turn on the tap.”

“Of course.” Alastor said. He raised a hand—the one not holding onto the demon’s shoulder—and flinched as cold water splashed through his hair. “How could I possibly doubt your good intentions? Tell me, once I have them alone, how should I kill them?”

“Well that depends, doesn’t it? How loud do you want them to be?”

Alastor closed his eyes and smirked as the demon scooted him back, closer to the tap. Water, especially flowing water, was one of those line-blurring exceptions—too insubstantial for the demon to touch unless Alastor was especially close.  _ “That _ depends on what the orchestra is playing. Something loud and brass could cover up a scream or two, but if it’s a ballad I think I’d rather—” As he spoke the balance shifted, the water flowed across the demon’s palm instead of through it, and Alastor spluttered as it splashed across his face and up his nose. The demon didn’t apologize, but it did hold him steady while he coughed, then took a corner of the towel and wiped his face dry.

“A fair point,” it went on. “But even in a best case scenario, you won’t have the tools to tie them up or enough time to really let loose. We’ll save  _ that _ for later, so for now let’s cover the worst case, shall we?”

Alastor was close enough to the water now for the demon to splash palmfuls of it across his hair, making sure every strand was wet. It combed its hands through to break his hair’s usual patterns, sweeping it back and teasing out the odd tangle that resulted. Between the cold water, the claws running across his scalp, and the demon’s words, Alastor couldn’t help the shivers running down his spine, and he was sure the demon could feel them. At the very least it could feel his tension and see his breathing deepen, all the little signs Alastor had long since stopped holding back around it. It might have been those or just the topic of murder filling its voice with wicked glee, but either way Alastor savored every word.

“In the worst case, you’ll have to be quick and quiet, but that doesn’t mean you can’t have your fun. Don’t let them see the knife until it’s too late, and they won’t even scream when you do it. Shock’s a powerful tool, so go ahead. Stab them in the stomach and watch them look down and up and down as they figure out what just happened. Watch their eyes, and the moment they know you’re going to kill them, that’s when you aim for the throat.”

The demon’s hand, which had been splashing cold water along the back of Alastor’s head, suddenly wrapped around his neck, complete with claws at his jugular. Alastor gasped, flinched, banged his head against the faucet, and fell down clutching his forehead. He didn’t know if the demon laughing made it better or worse, but after a few seconds it did reach down to help him up. The towel had kept the worst of the water off Alastor’s clothes, and the demon flipped it up to dry his hair as Alastor fumbled for the knob.

“I’ll take that as a yes!” it said. “A perfect suggestion! You can’t wait to try it.”

Alastor shook his head. “Never mind that. Am I bleeding?”

The demon turned his head to face it. “Nope! Might bruise though,” it added as Alastor looked in the mirror. There was an angry red half-circle in the middle of his forehead that he’d have trouble explaining at work tomorrow. At least his mask would cover it up.

“Well, now that that’s over with. . .” he muttered and started rifling through drawers. For all that the demon fussed over his clothes, rarely did either of them bother with Alastor’s hair more than making sure he kept his appointments with the barber. There was a rarely used jar of pomade somewhere in his bathroom, and it was only in the third drawer he checked that Alastor found it.

“Over with?” his demon said in the meanwhile. “You looked like you were enjoying yourself.”

“Was that before you tried to drown me or after?”

“Both,” it said. “And knowing you, during.”

Alastor huffed as he pulled out the jar. “Before you get any ideas, no, not during. Drowning, I have learned, is unequivocally not fun, but if you’re curious you can see for yourself. How are you feeling?”

“Not curious enough,” the demon said, but they both knew that wasn’t what Alastor meant. It walked over as Alastor scooped a small amount into his palm. “I can manage.”

This was another of those poorly defined lines. The demon had no trouble rubbing his hands against Alastor’s to warm and soften the pomade. Nor would it have trouble with spreading it through Alastor’s hair. It was the in-between that was the problem. It wouldn’t have been the first time the product slipped literally through its fingers before it could get in place.

But today that wasn’t a problem. Alastor tipped his head back as the demon’s fingers combed through his hair, coating every strand from root to tip. It was almost relaxing. It would have been if the demon didn’t occasionally reach forward to press on the forming bruise, as if to remind Alastor exactly who he was allowing to touch him and why.

“So what comes next?” he asked. “I’ve killed, oh, say a dozen people and hidden the bodies. I come back to the hall and the survivors are starting to whisper. Their friends have been gone for an awfully long time. Maybe they should search for them. What do I do?”

“Simple. Join a search party.” The demon’s voice pitched up in mock concern. “’Miss Abigail? Why, I was dancing with her not five songs ago! I believe she left to powder her nose, but I haven’t seen her since.’ They’re practically inviting you to get them alone in a quiet hallway.”

Alastor let out a pleased hum. “People can be so trusting, but I can’t be everywhere at once. Sooner or later, someone will find a body.”

“Do they scream?”

“Oh, yes. I think so.” Alastor could almost hear it. The high-pitched horror echoing through the stone halls. The exchanged look between him and his demon as they realized the game was up and a new one was about to start.

“The first scream of the evening! It’s taken long enough. You’ll run straight there, of course. Comb.”

The demon stepped back and held its hands over the sink, and after a second the oil simply detached and fell away. Much simpler than Alastor having to scrub his hand with soap to get it off. It was almost enough to make him jealous if not for the obvious benefits of being able to touch in the first place.

It did give him a chance to look in the mirror. His hair was pulled back but not styled yet. That was what the comb was for, but the demon was right. He looked halfway to a different person already. Put a mask on, and only his smile would be left. It wouldn’t even stand out. Everyone would be smiling at a masquerade, for a while anyway. Alastor found a comb and raised it to his head, only for the demon to catch his wrist.

“No, no. I asked you to give it to me.”

“Can you even hold it?” The question was genuine. The demon had a better grasp of its strength than Alastor did, but this had never worked before.

“Nope!” it said, then shifted its hand. “But I can do this.”

It was still Alastor’s hand on the comb, but it was the demon’s guiding it, pulling it through his hair for that clean, slicked back look still so popular with undercuts these days. Alastor let his wrist go limp as he laughed.

“Really? Is this part of it too? Everything you want?”

The demon stepped up behind him, wrapping an arm around Alastor’s shoulders and pulling him to its chest. Despite that, Alastor’s attention was drawn to his hand, to the slow line the demon drew down his index finger. “You’re the one who told me to stop holding back,” it said. “You’re the one who  _ volunteered. _ Don’t start complaining now.”

“Who’s complaining?” Alastor shifted to settle closer against the demon’s chest, then reached his free hand back. With the angle he couldn’t do much more than wrap it around the demon’s waist, but that was enough. Alastor heard it chuckle and closed his eyes. If the demon was going to insist on styling his hair, he could wait until the end to see the result. “So what happens next?” he asked. “I’ve run to the scene. What do I see?”

“Another search party found a body. Not the one they were looking for, but now they know there’s murder afoot. It’s a party of three, let’s say. The woman found the body and screamed, and now she’s feeling faint. One of the men supports her while the other examines the corpse. That’s when you turn the corner.”

“’Ezekiel! I—! What happened here? What happened to. . . ?’”

The demon chuckled in his ear. “Oh? You’re going to memorize all their names, are you?”

“No, but this one was special. I’m glad they found him first.”

It shifted, sliding its arm down from Alastor’s shoulders and around his waist. “This one was special, hm? Let’s see. ‘He was stabbed in the throat. A clean cut through his larynx so he couldn’t scream but wouldn’t bleed out. After that. . .I’m sorry. It wasn’t fast.’”

“’Then he’s. . .’”

“’Dead, yes.’” The demon’s voice sharpened, acting as the other man. “’We need to warn the others.’”

“’No!’”

The demon’s hand tightened around Alastor’s. “’No?’”

“’It’ll tip the murderer off, everyone else will panic, and he’ll get away with the crowd. No, what we need to do is lock the doors. Keep anyone from getting out until the police get here. I saw a sitting room on the way with a phone in it.  _ You _ make sure the main gate is locked, and you two come with me. She can lie down while I phone the police.’”

“Oh, clever. Lock them in with the killer, straight out of a horror story.” The demon finished smoothing down the back of Alastor’s hair, then dragged the edge of the comb around his neck. “And once they’re alone with you. . .”

“Exactly,” Alastor grinned and opened his eyes. Even knowing what it was, he still flinched at the comb held to his reflection’s throat. He’d seen it so clearly—the knife in his hands, the back turned to him as the man laid the woman down on a couch. “It’s the last mistake they’ll ever make. No phone calls either. I’ve been cutting cords as I’ve seen them.”

Neither of the two wanted to move, but there were still preparations to be made. Alastor pulled away first, set the comb down, and walked back to his bed to fetch his cravat. By the time he’d looped the ends around his neck, his demon was there to help him tie it.

“So what do you think?” it said. “Have you sinned enough yet that I can touch them?”

“You have a plan?”

“I have an idea. It could be complete fiction, but we’re getting to the climax anyway.” The demon finished its knot, and when it looked up, its eyes were sharp and bright with bloodlust. “It can’t last much longer. Maybe you pick off a few stragglers in the hallways, or maybe  _ we _ do, and that’s when you realize.”

Alastor’s eyes widened. “You don’t have to watch me anymore. This time I can watch you.”

“Exactly.” It pulled away with a spin, almost bouncing with glee until it stopped by Alastor’s bed. “But it’s still your sin. Still your choice. You could dispel me whenever you’d like, but you won’t.”

“But I won’t.” Alastor nodded. He walked over to join the demon, then picked up his coat. His hands found the sleeves, and the demon helped drape it across his shoulders. “Why should I dispel you, when you’re the only way I’m getting out of there alive.”

“Oh?”

“Word’s started to spread, but only to a trusted few masqueraders who can keep quiet. We all gather in the ballroom. The doors are locked, the band is playing, the dancers are dancing, and we meet in a corner to pool what we know. As it turns out, all the victims have just one thing in common. Each of them was last seen with a man in a red coat and a bone-white mask. All eyes turn to me.”

“And just as they’re about to pin you down, from across the hall comes a muttering.”

Alastor grinned, pleased that the demon had caught on so quickly. Or maybe he was the one who’d caught on. “A body falls. Then another. Marionettes with their strings cut by an invisible hand.” Alastor walked over to his desk and pulled his gloves on, soft black fabric that didn’t show its stains. It was tempting to let his demon do the job, but it would take too long, and the demon was right. The climax was close at hand.

The demon stalked closer, its movements as careful and deliberate as its words, like the creeping dread of any good horror story. “But slowly,” it said, “as the partygoers start to look closer, those hands aren’t quite so invisible as before. They’re black and red, and redder than ever.” It stopped barely a foot away from Alastor, and its hand settled on top of his. It guided him until his fingers bumped into smooth papier-mâché, and together they raised the mask to his face.

“And there you are,” Alastor said. “For the first time they see you, red coat and all. Who would have guessed it? It was you all along.”

The demon tied the mask’s ribbon tight around Alastor’s head, then with a wide grin it looked down to the book left open on the desk.

_ “And now was acknowledged the presence of the Red Death. He had come like a thief in the night. And one by one dropped the revellers in the blood-bedewed halls of their revel, and died each in the despairing posture of his fall. And the life of the ebony clock went out with that of the last of the gay. And the flames of the tripods expired. And Darkness and Decay and the Red Death held illimitable dominion over all.  _ I told you it was fitting.”

For a while Alastor could only laugh. “Ha! So I am Prospero! I may not be dead, but I’m still the first you got your hands on.” This time it was Alastor who reached out and grabbed his demon’s hand.

“Oh, you’ll still die,” it said but matched its steps to Alastor’s anyway. It was a slow dance, a careful waltz as they set the rhythm without music. Alastor sighed and looked down at the demon’s chest.

“Such a shame. It’s an easy job for the police when only one of the masqueraders makes it out alive.”

“Two.”

Alastor lifted his head to shoot the demon a questioning stare, and it gave him a grin in return.

“I’ll save one of them for you to take home. A bit of dessert after the main course, but until then the music is loud, and the dance floor is ours.”

Alastor chuckled. “Except you’ve killed the orchestra.”

“We’ll put on a record.” The demon shrugged, but it wasn’t a record that came on. Both of them froze as a click echoed through the room and the sound of a weather report streamed from the radio.

There was no need for words. Just a glance was enough to show they knew. Alastor leaned closer, his eyes scanning for any minuscule difference he could find, anything tangible to substantiate the change. “I knew it,” he whispered. “I told you. . .” It didn’t matter that they hadn’t acted the scene out yet. What greater sin was there than to deliberately encourage his demon? To willingly tip a slow slide into a slip and fall? To gleefully fantasize about all the things he could do to drag it into his world?

But just as he was about to pull the demon in for a closer dance—a tango perhaps—it pulled away. The demon walked over to his chair, where Alastor had left his hat. It reached out—a grand gesture to sweep the hat off the chair and onto Alastor’s head—and its hand passed through the fabric with barely a rustle. The hat rocked on the chair back as if blown by a breeze, then settled in place.

It was still more than they’d ever had before. Alastor knew he was laughing as he walked over and put the hat on himself. He knew he was laughing because he couldn’t get out any of the words he wanted. Not the cheers or congratulations or all the endless possibilities if they could only go just a half step further. The radio tuned itself to a dance track, and Alastor let himself be swept away.

As they spun through the room Alastor caught flashes of red and more red in the mirror. One coat and another—one pinstriped, the other embroidered in gold and swirling out behind them. The demon’s red hair and the hat on his own head, complete with crimson feather arching up from the brim. The demon’s eyes and his white mask, shaped just so to seem almost skull-like when it caught the shadows. The Red Death and its. . . . Alastor laughed again as he couldn’t find an answer. Partner in crime? Too narrow. Maybe just partner. Maybe more. It didn’t matter, not to him, and soon enough the world could see and decide for themselves.

**Author's Note:**

> I'll be skipping days 5 and 6, so the next thing I post will be on Sunday probably.


End file.
